


no, life ain’t easy these days.

by thackeryisatop (orphan_account)



Series: sucker[s] [3]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, Flirting, M/M, Oral Sex, Quarantine, Soap Opera AU, slow burn? maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thackeryisatop
Summary: Brock is spending the summer of the Worst Year Ever working as a pool boy; and lucks out when his favorite client just so happens to have a really hot son.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Series: sucker[s] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555918
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	no, life ain’t easy these days.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Explicit Sexual Content, Drinking. 
> 
> Most Important: This story contains references to the pandemic quarantine, but they are kept deliberately vague and only inform the setting as background details- such as stores/colleges being closed, (character) is at home due to businesses shutting down, etc.

Brock's truck rumbled up the driveway, gravel crunching underneath his brand new tires as he stepped on the accelerator, picking up a little bit of speed on the steep, tree-lined incline that led up to the front door of his favorite clients' home. 

In Nashville, he would have scoffed, passing the wide, blue-and-white glass-wrapped house on his way to the Fashion District, laughing at what vapid, empty people would have filled its half-dozen bathrooms with everything but their own happiness. Maybe it was the sea-salt air, or the whole strip of empty patios and boarded up windows along the road below; left behind for the packed shores of the beach that their backyard hung above, but he unequivocally loved Annabel, who was loud and bright, and would leave a coconut cocktail on her back deck and wink at him from the window while he worked; and her husband, whose name he had never caught, but who would pretend that he was the straight man between them until he would inevitably cut up over some stupid joke he found on Facebook. 

Brock could feel himself loosen up with the two of them, grinning in a way that he hoped reflected both professionalism, and a willingness to do anything to maintain a positive relationship with existing clientele; in case they ever decided to call his boss. 

Brock hadn't expected many friends, moving all the way across the country a couple of months into what would probably be forever known as The Worst Year Ever to even his nieces' great-grandkids, and Annabel and her husband occupied a singular bright spot in the middle of his day. 

In between fishing condoms out of hot tub pipes and pretending that he didn't take a twenty dollar bill under the table from an embarrassed wife who would beg him not to tell her mistress, and nodding along like a bobblehead under the hundred degree sun, so that whatever soccer mom bitching about having her kids at home wouldn't think he wasn't working hard enough, the California coastline was unsurprisingly bleak, the sun and surf not quite able to erase the crush of heated anxiety that everyone seemed to be feeling all at once. 

He parked the truck beside a mountain of deliveries, right up by the house's front stoop, where white and brown boxes were piled in a messy tower, tipping into Annabel's hanging succulents. She'd told Brock that they were trying to order almost everything, he remembered, tucking the top box underneath his arm as he keyed in the code to let himself in. 

It couldn't hurt to bring everything in with him, the relative quiet of their entire property finally sinking in. They probably had appointments, or else had taken advantage of the empty, early-morning highway traffic to treat themselves to a weekend out of town. 

Brock was almost halfway through dragging the heaviest of the boxes through the front door, more mentally than physically tiring as he tried to think of how to get whatever it was into their front entryway without scraping the vintage, reclaimed door frame that was Annabel’s' pride and joy; when he heard a sharp, shrill whistle behind him. 

" _Brock_!" 

He turned to see Annabel, descending the sable, hardwood staircase, her pink, claw-tipped nails circling around the railing with a tiny, wicked grin on her face. 

"What the hell are you doing that for? Do you work for the movers now too?", she laughed, her New York Puerto Rican accent filling the high ceilings of the entryway, as Brock grunted, and finally pulled the last box inside. 

"Sorry for the mess.", she told him, shutting the door behind Brock as she waded through the boxes littered at their feet. "My son moved back in a couple of days ago and it's just, messy. He's messy already, but his shit is everywhere now and I didn't realize there was so much left outside, too." 

Brock raked a hand through his blonde curls. 

"You have a son? How old is he, like, two? I’ve thought you were twenty-nine this whole time!", he joked, sidestepping her palm lightly slapping against his arm. 

"Shut the hell up. He's, maybe a few years younger than you. He was working in Vegas and when his show closed, he had already given up the lease on his apartment, so- you know-" 

Brock nodded, the situation far more familiar than he realized Annabel knew. In all of the houses he had worked in the past week, he’d heard a story just like hers. With every college shutting up shop and sending everyone home, Brock suddenly found himself dodging what seemed like dozens of horny post-grads, rolling his eyes when they would flirt with him while their parents pretended to be oblivious, having far too much fun blowing California-legal weed against the empty sky.

“I’m sorry.”, said Brock, letting Annabel lead him through the house. Sweaters and t-shirts were thrown over her sable leather couches, a bright red backpack hung behind the teakwood chairs in their formal dining room. “But mostly for you.”, he chuckled, stepping over a pair of red-and-white Air Jordans just beside the back door. 

“Don’t even start.” 

“So what did he do in Vegas?”

“He was dancing in the, you know- the Strip.” 

She must notice Brock’s eyes widen, while they walk to the pool house, a terra cotta outcropping tickled by vines that swing in the humid air from the trellis. 

“Not a stripper.”,she laughed. “Maybe in his mind, but I’ll kill him if he ever gets OnlyFans. He was working at one of the shows there and when the casino closed, so did the showroom.” 

“Oh. Sucks then.” 

“Make sure you tell him yourself if you see him. We’re still in what the internet calls the pity stage here. Do you know about all of those? The stages of getting over something?” 

“The stages of grief?” 

“It’s not that serious, I don’t think.”

Brock pulls open the door, his hands moving with muscle memory as he starts to prep his tools; the hose to wash down the deck, bottles of chemicals already in order to treat the water, and a stack of wire brushes in a bucket to clean the filters after he drains the pool, and their hot tub. There’s another shed across the fenced acre that’s their courtyard; where he’ll cross later in the day to get on their lawnmower and take care of the sprinklers spraying their lawn with a fine mist of rainbow water. 

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”, she reminds him, tapping against the back of her phone in her hand. “And if you do see Jose, tell him it’s not your job to clean up all his shit. I think from you, he’ll listen.”   
  


* * *

“ _-pretty sure I’m ready to just fucking die now._ ”, Brock moaned, the hem of his sweaty red tank top balled up in his sunburnt fists, his frustration just as clear as the white-gold sun that has settled in the hazy blue sky above. The air tasted bitter, and smelled like road-track rubber, the noise still carrying from the beaches. 

“Hm- what-?”

His eyes floated back across the courtyard, up to the pool deck from the shed, where he was unscrewing a sprinkler from the hose, the spray of clear, cool water that spurted from its head doing little to wash through the dirty thoughts in his mind as the water trickled down his wrists and arm.

He hadn’t known quite what to expect from what Annabel had told him, but Jose certainly wasn’t it.

Whatever underwear model had popped up in his mind when Annabel had said dancer, was a stark contrast to the stocky young man whose body was draped over a rainbow flag beach towel that loudly proclaimed _Vegas is for the Queens!_ Jose laid flat on his back against the pink and orange pool deck, deep brown skin glimmering underneath the scorching sun. He was nearly naked, and wore only a pair of obnoxiously saturated red swim briefs and jet-black sunglasses that were ringed with sparkling rhinestones as his feet kicked against the diamond- clear pool water when he rolled himself over, pushing his glistening body up on his wrists. 

He was already worse than the girls who flirted with Brock behind their parents’ backs; for the simple fact that he knew he was a distraction; and had almost hounded Brock for hours, his body making all kinds of shapes on the deck, his ass and thighs juicy and plump, pushed up behind him for a photo that Brock had watched him take on a phone the size of his whole head, his cheeks suddenly flush as Jose shook his ass for the camera, and started to giggle to himself. 

Brock had drained the pool, and scrubbed its filters clean, while Jose rolled over on his stomach, holding a celebrity autobiography up to block the sun from his face, treating Brock to an exceptional view of the thinly-veiled outline of his cock and balls while his swimsuit dried; which Brock had tried- and was still failing, to keep out of his mind. 

“Did you need something, baby?”, he asked, his sharp, shrill voice cutting through the thick air, while Brock forced the hose head down, spraying the courtyard bricks with a dark, spluttering stream as he reached to turn it off.

“N- uh, no! All good. Just a little- trouble keeping it, uh- _never mind.._ ”, he tripped over the words in his mouth, finally letting the sprinkler clatter to the ground as he squeezed hard against the hose tube, cutting off the flow of water so that he could get close enough to finally put himself out of his misery and snap the valve into the off position. 

To make matters worse, Jose stretched like a cat, pushing his arms in front of him and unfurling his body from his center, his legs spreading apart for just one hellish moment as he sprang up, flicking the towel deftly into his hands as he started to fold it. His bare feet squelched against the freshly power-washed deck as he made his way toward Brock, towel tucked underneath his arm. 

His blush-pink lips fell open, and Brock watched with as much unmasked fascination as he couldn’t stifle, as he bit down and chewed on his lower lip, his eyebrows quirking as if he was trying to figure out what to say. 

“Oh shit-“, he murmured, his left hand reaching towards Brock’s arm, the tattoos on the back of his fingers brushing up against the stark ink that marked Brock‘s own, his manicured nails feeling absolutely electric against Brock’s skin. 

“I- “ 

Jose recoiled away, shaking his head as his hand dropped to his side. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird, just, _mami_ , you all burnt up.” 

Brock swallowed, the burning in his skin having never felt quite as acute as it did where Jose’s touch had ghosted across it. 

“Yeah- Uh- I know. I’ll just put some lotion on, after I guess?”, he shrugged, hoping he didn’t look as awkward as his thoughts were, confronted with Jose right in front of him, a whole head shorter, and twice as loud, his voice vibrating through Brock’s skull as he blinked against the sunlight reflecting from Jose’s glasses. 

“Nu-uh, you gonna be hurting all day. We got some lotion inside, and it’s the good anti-aging shit, too.”, Jose says decisively. He flips his glasses up to rest against his hat, warm brown eyes sparkling with mischief underneath them, stark tan lines cut into the side of his face. 

“Unless you ain’t into the _fancy_ stuff… then… you know, I’m gonna need to apologize…- ‘cause that’s all we’ve got.” 

Brock’s eyes grew wide again, matching his toothy, wicked, grin. 

“The fancy stuff- I like fancy.”, he sputtered, breathless and quiet, his mouth finally cooperating even though the words seemed suspended between them, Jose nodding much more slowly in return in Brock’s mind’s eye at least.

“Then let’s get you taken care of.” 

-

Jose led him back inside, popping his tongue loudly as a burst of cold, harsh air hit both of their faces in the entryway from the air conditioner. 

“Bitch, this heat’s gonna get us before anything else, I swear.”, he spat, throwing his towel back over the first available couch. In the blue-white indoors, Brock watched him move with a kind of foreign confidence, clearly unbothered by how the skin of his inner thighs met each other, the slight curve of his hips even more insanely attractive, so different than the men who Brock usually lusted after. 

The ones he was _told_ to lust after, anyway.

He picked a tie-dyed t-shirt that had been thrown against an end table, raising his arms high over his head as he slipped it on, Brock’s eyes feasting on the soft flesh that stretched across his chest. 

He would be _so_ fired if he hooked up with his favorite client’s hot son. 

_Annabel_ would probably skin him alive if- 

“Hey, c’mon. Bathroom’s upstairs.” 

They trudged up the staircase, Brock almost horrifyingly aware of the sound of Annabel’s favorite telenovelas blasting loudly from the flatscreen in her bedroom. 

Jose pushed open another of the maze of white-glazed doors that lined their upstairs hallway, and began rummaging through the medicine cabinet, coming away with a green tube of aloe vera gel that he squirted wordlessly into his hand. 

“Told ya, it’s the good shit.”, he giggled, winking over at Brock. His eyelashes were long enough to brush over the very top of his cheekbones, ruddy with their own slight sunburn. 

He smiled, reaching for Brock’s arm.

“C’mon, I’ll be fast. I bet you have a lot of places to be, hm?”

His fingers were nimble, his hands massaging the cooling cream on to Brock’s arms, thumbs pressing down on the tiny knots that had started to squeeze together in his shoulders, the contrast between the golden tan that was starting to come through Jose’s skin, and Brock’s bright red lobster sheen never as obvious as it was when he turned to look at himself in the mirror, only to find that his shirt very nearly matched his face and neck. 

“Here, close your eyes for a second-“ 

Jose’s fingertips moved in circles over Brock’s skin, the sharp, acrylic edges of his nails catching on his facial hair, that had been sorely lacking a trim for the past few weeks, though his touch still felt oddly comforting, familiar and easy to sink into, in a way that Brock was altogether unprepared for. 

He hadn’t dated since he had moved across the country, his nights more occupied with soothing his stiff, overworked muscles in a lukewarm bath, scrolling through his messages and watching as every man in his hundred-mile radius complained about the club being closed, and practically begged him to come over. None of them had a high enough paying job to justify risking his own, though as Brock watched Jose’s tiny tongue poke out between his teeth, the golden ring that hung in his septum swinging as he nodded his head, he realized that come tomorrow, he’d have an entirely new reason for not wanting to lose his job. 

“You got yourself a man? Boyfriend? Husband? Quarantine Boo? Sugar Daddy?”, Jose asked him, his face dangerously close to Brock’s chest, his mouthwash- scented breath blown against the fabric of his shirt. Warmth flooded again into Brock’s face, as his nipples prickled at the sudden sensation. 

“I’m not um, really into quarantine boos. I don’t- I don’t do hookups.”, he said, with a dry chuckle, the plain, thirsting, awkwardness of the entire situation almost ready to envelop him in the same warmth that Jose’s touch had made him feel. 

“ _Good_.”

Jose gripped Brock’s hand in his own, swinging them together as he pulled them both back down the hallway. 

Brock blinked. 

Wait, _what_?

 _Had he read everything wrong_? 

“‘Cause you gotta get to know me first. I don’t do no first date bullshit. So-“, Jose told him, his surely faux-whitened teeth nearly glowing against the dark, classy colors of the wall they stood before, as he tapped on the outline of Brock’s phone in the pocket of his shorts. “ _-don’t make yourself a stranger._ ” 

He cocked his head to one side, his cap nearly falling to the floor as he did. 

“Mmmhmm.” 

“My number’s one _double_ seven-“ 

“ _Ah-ah-_ “, Brock whispered, offering Jose the phone instead. “You put it in yourself.” 

He seemed to perk up with the slightest tease, and Brock could feel a smile tug up at the corners of his cheeks, as he watched Jose frantically enter his phone number into his contacts, fingers flying so fast Brock could almost see him crack one of his nails on the screen. 

“Here you go.” 

“Okay.”, Brock laughed, enjoying how proud Jose was, that his little game was working. “And you have to do something for me.” 

He nodded eagerly, mouth half open in anticipation. 

“Clean all your shit up, your mom told me to tell you it’s not her job.” 

Jose’s mouth drops open, and Brock can’t help but nearly burst out laughing at how utterly shocked he looks, his lashes making his eyes look like massive buttons, his irises so dark that they can blend into his pupils. 

“ _Uh-_ “ 

“But I won’t be a stranger. _Bye, Jose._ ” 

The way that he whips around, still so adorably flustered, his tanned, thick, legs shuffling to catch up to Brock’s wider strides as he makes his way down the stairs, makes their whole little game, _worth it_. 

-

Jose started to text him at almost the very first moment that Brock began to drive away, the green bubble at the top of his phone screen popping up again and again as he tried to swipe it away, and open his GPS app so he could input the next client’s address. Halfway through the third time that he had to type their ZIP code, he relented, pulled over by the side of the street, and swiped to open the app, his full name in all caps at the top of the message screen beside a purple eggplant emoji. 

_Predictable_. 

Brock scrolled past the dozens of texts, blinking several times before he realized that they weren’t all separate messages, rather, the way that he typed split sentences in half, peppered with emojis and scrolls of text that he had apparently gotten from a keyboard app. 

Not even a minute later, and Brock shook his head, his eyes already exhausted. He started up the truck again, laying his phone on the seat beside him, the engine coming back to life with a thrumming sound that Brock hummed along with, pulling out of his impromptu parking spot. 

He caught his own eye in the rearview mirror, checking the road behind him for oncoming cars, his foot tapping on the brakes as a car as a few others rumbled up the street. Brock pulled his shirt up over his head, wrestling it off around his seatbelt. 

He reached for his phone, tapping quickly on the camera icon, angling it down to capture the deep V of his slim hips; the abs that had begun to poke out behind his middle since he’d landed on the West Coast. He tapped the button, swiped quickly to send Jose his picture, and threw the phone into the cupholder as he got back on to the highway. 

It barely took seconds, before the soundtrack of constant, pinging noises joined his car radio as he drove back up the coast. 

_So_ predictable.   
  


* * *

  
“- So, I just got paid yesterday, and the Sephora’s open here again, so-“

Brock adjusted his camera, which rested against his desk lamp in the wide, airy living room in his apartment; which had been a last minute price drop that he really couldn’t help but thank nothing short of God for every day, as he stretched out his long, tanned limbs on the couch that it had come with, and watched his cats fight with the huge tower fan that he had spent his very first paycheck on. 

He held up the blush palette to the camera again, and nodded as he tapped on a rosy shade of pink. 

“-I got myself a little treat. I’m gonna do a more casual look today, with this and a couple of other nice, dewy pinks-“

He had started going live on his Instagram months ago in Nashville, a welcome reprieve from the hardware store where he worked, loading crates in the garden center. His boss had found out when his page had started to get popular, and simply shrugged, pointing at the photo of himself and his nephews marching together at the past year’s pride parade, tacked up to the bulletin board behind the checkout. 

“Half the people here don’t show up on time and you think I’m gonna be mad for this?”, he had said, fingers tapping away at the register the morning after Brock had tossed and turned all night, dreading that he would get into trouble. “Please. My daughter watches all of you. If you care about what I think at all, you’d make that your whole full-time job. Heard some of these kids make a million dollars from it. From YouTube, can you imagine that?” 

Brock couldn’t, though he had easily crossed his first few thousand followers on Instagram, and since everyone had been at home, his following had only spiked; settling at a more than comfortable thirteen thousand people who somehow thought he was worth their time. Almost two hundred of them were on the live now, and Brock’s screen was peppered with colorful hearts and a handful of comments, most of which were just emojis. 

“Give me tips on color correcting, Lobster Mom-“, he read out loud, rolling his eyes even though he grinned, shaking his head at whichever one of his followers seemed to think they were on fire that night. They liked to playfully tease each other, and Brock had never been more grateful for the ribbing than he was with no one else to do it with in real life. 

“Some of us are grown-ups with bills to pay, so yeah, I was at work earlier.”, he told them, dipping a thick, fat brush into his palette. “But if I drop my Venmo in the comments, will you guys tip me?”

“That’s right, that’s a no.”, he laughed, turning his attention away from the comments as he set to work on his face. It was a bit different, with his beard growing in, but he reveled in looking so foreign, even to his own reflection in the mirror. Some people even seemed to be more into it, the sharp crease of his eye never more attractive to them than when it was coupled with his much thicker eyebrows and beard. 

Brock knew that he had a couple of more famous followers, a few drag queens and more popular artists having found his account after he had lurked on theirs, and it was no surprise to see a few blue checks in his comments. 

“Hey Morgan! I can’t wait to see you soon, too. Say hi to Mayhem for me!” 

He scrolled quickly through the comments, blinking while he waited for the powder to set against his skin.

“- Aww, that’s so good to hear! A cat definitely changes your life-“, he replied to one of his viewers, nodding while he brushed away at his cheeks. 

He worked steadily on his look for the night, finishing most of his face before he readied himself to do his eyes, before looking back down at the comments stream. 

Which was absolutely, _exploding_. 

Brock saw a couple of blue checks pop up in the window, and ignored it for a moment, spraying his face with a setting spray before he opened the comments panel. Some of the people who checked him out were verified, usually the more popular drag queens who followed him and some of the makeup artists who had YouTube channels, and he searched for what was probably another saucy comment from Morgan, who was clearly enjoying being home alone far too much. 

Instead, there was a _jc.caliente_ in his chat, a bright blue circle beside his name. 

_-_

_How about you do an eye for me_

_Lol_

_Pussy Pink_

_-_

Brock could feel his cheeks flush as the realization dawned on him, of exactly who this was. 

_-_

_HELLLO_

_MISS SNAPCHAT QUEEN_

_oh he’s ignoring me_

_OH HELL NO_

_-_

Brock bit down on on the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from starting to giggle. Jose had texted him all afternoon and into the evening, and stopped only when Brock assumed he went to have his dinner. His apprehension, that had set in almost right after he had sent Jose his picture had dissolved as the two of them texted back and forth, Jose quickly coming down from the high of the picture to an excitable middle where he peppered Brock with compliments, and asked how his day had been. 

He shouldn’t have expected it to take long, before Jose found him on Instagram, but he was curious about blue check. Jose had seemed sweet when they had met, and while he was just as bratty and obnoxious as most of LA, Brock wondered exactly how he’d managed that. 

“Hi, Jose!”, he greeted, winking one unfinished eye at the camera. He liked to talk to the people in the chat anyway, and hoped no one would think too much of it as he opened his drawer to pick an eyeshadow palette from his collection. 

He had planned to do something simple, though the inspiration struck in the opposite direction, and he reached for a black compact, filled with neon brights instead. 

_-_

_She see me!!!!_

_Yes eye_

_-_

“Yes, Jose, I’m doing my eyes.”, he chuckled, brushing a bright, creamy pink over his lids. 

Brock blinked, brushing the fallout from his cheekbones, surprised to see a sudden flood of comments, all asking about Jose, and how the two of them knew each other. 

“ _Shit-_ “

_-_

_The eye goes with the nipples I think_

_-_

Brock’s mouth went dry, as the comments took over his entire screen, Jose’s fans clearly in attendance as he watched the viewer number jump from somewhere in the low two hundreds, to nearly five hundred people at once. 

“You would know, right?”, he snickered, a rush of confidence taking him over. “Do you want me to guest you, Jose?” 

He reached for a bottle of water behind his mirror, the ice-cold plastic his hand grounding him to the moment with an absolutely delicious jolt.

_-_

_I’m just about to jump in the shower!!!_

_BYE_

_-_

Brock shook his head, as Jose swiftly disappeared from the chat, amused enough by how flustered he was that he couldn’t keep the smile off his face, even as his viewer numbers dropped back to normal, his followers still clearly freaking out when he closed the comments panel. 

“-C’mon, nipples-“, he laughed, setting back to work on finishing his face. 

He finished the live soon after, volleying back and forth with his viewers for about a half hour more until he completed the look, closing the comments to let them take a few screenshots of his look. 

“Thanks, guys. Hope you all stay safe and be cool!”, he said, finally closing the app. 

Brock blew air out from between his lips, pausing for just a moment, before he immediately opened Instagram back up again and searching for Jose’s name. 

His profile listed a few impressive credits, and though he didn’t have too many more followers than Brock did, Brock could tell from his highlights that he had been in a couple of viral videos that he remembered seeing over the years, Jose’s career unevenly weighted based on his age, or at least how old Brock thought he was, as he scrolled down his feed. 

Most of the posts were videos, some from his last show, but the pictures that Brock found had his thumb pressing down on the ribbon to save them right away. 

Jose stood in nothing but a black, sparkling jockstrap, his legs soaked with golden glitter. Jose with his ass squeezed into silky, black spandex shorts and a pair of heels that laced up his stocky calves. Jose, as he smiled straight at the camera, eyes sparkling as he pressed a sushi roll to his mouth, chopsticks teasing at his lips like Brock wished his own fingers would instead-

He swallowed, and immediately pocketed his phone, his mouth already dry as he made his way to his bed.

* * *

Jose was in rare form when Brock saw him next, dressed in a red-and-white striped t-shirt, and impossibly small tan shorts that were tight around his ass as he greeted Brock at the front door. 

“Where’s Annab- uh, your mom?”, he asked. 

They had been texting almost too much, back and forth over the past week; and even FaceTiming daily, late at night while Brock settled into his bath, and Jose would roll over underneath his sheets, with a pillow underneath his chin as he listened to Brock talk about his day, his clients becoming characters that filled out the only stories which Jose got to be a part of, especially since their cable service had been notoriously so slow that he’d googled most of what happened in the movies before they would even load and play. 

Brock would never admit it, but the screenshots he had of Jose’s thread of replies to his picture, had become some of the most treasured material in his one of his private folders, the sound of his voice unmistakable behind every capslocked text, so close to the real thing that Brock could almost imagine Jose beside him in his bed, while he held his own cock in his hands and pumped. 

“She’s busy. Uh, she’s in the kitchen.”

After the live, the two of them had had an almost instant influx of followers, dozens of people unsurprisingly finding both a Las Vegas go-go boy, and a rising beauty guru, relevant to their interests. 

“I thought Annabel hated cooking. She tells me all the time.”

“She does. But my stepdad- bitch, he thinks he’s mayor of Flava Flav or some shit.”

He led Brock out to the courtyard, down the hallways that he’d become so used to, that the absent swishing of the skirts and dresses Annabel usually wore, was enough of a difference to distract him. 

The couches and the carpets laid across the floor were bare enough for Brock to notice, the implosion of Jose’s things from the past week clearly now, quartered away, leaving the house as pristine and bright, the feeling that it wasn’t quite so lived in as it should have been, just as thick as the blast of heat as they stepped outside. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re like, actually famous?” 

Jose had followed Brock to the shed, clearly intent on being his shadow for the day. It was both sweet, and immediately amusing, a thousand ideas flooding Brock’s mind in seconds, of how he was going to return the favor, and mess with Jose a little. 

“You could have told me you were, too.”,Jose laughed, slapping his hand lightly against Brock’s side. 

“Besides, I’m really not.”,he said with a shrug, his fingers reaching to unlock the shed as he kept his eyes trained to the brick which framed the walkway. “I was in this video that blew up and got memed and stuff but that’s not… _me_ , you know? Not gonna lie or nothing, it’s nice having numbers, but I like to keep my real tea off the ‘gram.” 

“What? I love the ‘gram! Besides, you- I watched your videos. You’re really, really good.” 

Their bodies drifted closer together in the tiny shed, Brock becoming much more aware of how truly starved he was for this; their closeness feeling like so much more when he hadn’t even been touched since the last week, Jose’s fingers still far too fresh in his memory for it to be healthy. 

“What’s your white boy ass know about good?”

Brock helped him pull his supplies out from the back of the shed, their hands meeting each other as Brock lifted the bucket of brushes up over Jose’s head. His strength was impressive, he supposed, his muscles taut underneath his skin, the result of what must have been years of training; but he was still no match for Brock’s size. 

“Hey, I did my time in ballet class as a kid. I was, like _that_ gay kid.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. I can still do like, six piques, maybe?”

“Six _what-_?”

“You don’t remember?”

Brock dropped the bucket against the pool deck, and motioned for Jose to join him on the pool deck, stepping forward to the smoothest part of the tile as he pushed off, easily finding a rotation on the ball of his foot. 

“Shit, maybe you do know something about good.”, Jose muttered, his eyes locked to the firm curve of Brock’s ass, squeezed tight underneath the fabric belt he used to hold them up. 

“I was never one of those hoes, just started up in videos when I was little and kept it going, ‘cause, you know, I guess my mom thought I was cute and we from LA proper, so you know everyone and their baby sisters all got agents.”, he explained. 

“Talent’s still talent.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

The two of them circled the deck, to the very back of the hot tub, where the valves and pipes that Brock would need to turn off to drain the water were welded into the the concrete. 

“Is it okay if I help? Like, is that allowed?” 

“Of course. It is _your_ house, after all.”

“Just don’t want you to get in trouble. You about to lose all your fans when they can’t get their ripped lumberjack realness off of you anymore if you ain’t got a job.” 

“ _Please_.”, Brock scoffed, his hand clamped down around one of the valves. “I’m a handyman, not a lumberjack.” 

“Like Bob the Builder?”

“Don’t tell me _that’s_ what you’re into-“

-

The conversation between them flowed surprisingly easily, to Brock especially, his ever-present anxiety almost completely disappeared. Jose would laugh at his jokes, and come back with a wicked, goofy little barb of his own, as they swung their feet in the water, watching it drain beneath them.

He learned that Jose missed his best friend Silky, the producer of the show where he had worked, more than life itself, but that they refused to let anything get in the way of finding Silky the man of his dreams, even if they had to guest a dozen men a night on Instagram lives to find him. 

Jose cooed appropriately at Brock’s cats, falling as much in love with Henry, who used his huge paws to swipe Brock’s water bottle from his desk, and Apollo, squirming from his harness attached to the cat leashes Brock had brought with him from Nashville, in the videos on his phone. 

He wondered if Jose, who had kicked off his shoes on the grass, would have thought he was boring, if he had any other choice- the lavish home and a lifestyle that had taken him all around the world before he had even hit thirty making Brock nervous, at how if the circumstances had been even a little different, perhaps he wouldn’t have ever given Brock a second look. 

Jose told him he had a bum knee from an old injury, Brock’s hand steady at the small of his back as he guided him down the pool’s side, careful not to let him jump right down against the slick, glistening tile left behind after the water cleared out, their chests bouncing against each other with a sudden, smooth warmth. 

“ _Careful-_ “ 

“Thanks, mami.”

He was a quick study, his beaming eyes surveying each piece of equipment, careful as Brock guided his hands over each, making sure he understood what he needed to be doing, before turning him loose on the pool floor, where Brock knew he’d have an easy time, as he turned his own attention to the complicated series of vents that filtered the water. 

No way was he letting Jose close to those metal deathtraps, no matter how proud of himself he seemed from across the pool, armed with a power washer strapped to his back. 

Jose was undeniably cute, screaming that he was officially a Ghostbuster now, swinging the hose before him, the spray back from the pool walls misting over him, a huge prism cut through with a beam of sunlight, covering him in a rainbow burst of light. Brock slipped his phone from the pocket of his shorts, and snapped a photo, not quite caring that it was blurry and distorted, the droplets of water reflecting back sharp pinpricks or silver light.

An hour later, Jose’s shirt was soaked with sweat, and clinging to his back as he stood at the bottom of their pool, barefoot and swaying from side to side as he helped Brock clean the filters under his watchful eye. Jose’s size was an advantage, too, Brock found, and despite his earlier reservations, his slim wrists more easily able to snake in to the vents. 

“The fuck is all this gunk coming from? We don’t even barely use the pool ‘cept when my stepdad wants to work out ‘cause I just like the hot tub.”, he complained, shaking his head as Brock guided him to sink the brush head back into a container of cleaning chemical. 

“Do you guys usually use your pool cover?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“So they aren’t bugs, or dead plants, probably. I’d guess, as a professional, it’s probably a whole lot of dead skin. Chlorine is a pretty harsh exfoliant-“

Jose jumped, nearly a clear foot away from Brock, the brush clattering from his hands as if he couldn’t get away from it fast enough.

“ _What the fuck-_ “ 

“Just being honest.”, he teased, kicking the handle of the brush so it sprang back up into his hand.

“Then don’t be! _Ew_ ! Oh my God, I’m not ever fuckin’ with my crusty-ass stepdad... _crust_ again!”, he screeched. 

“You really aren’t a fan of his, huh?” 

Jose crossed his arms over his chest. “When you put it like that-“, he sighed, leaning back against the wall. “You know this house is his, right? All this shit is his, and he never lets us forget it. I- I would’ve started making real money if I’d had another month in Vegas, and y’know… I just wanna buy my Mama everything she wants.” 

“Yeah. No, I get that.” 

Jose was quiet for a moment and walked himself back to face Brock. 

“But.” 

“Huh?” 

“He and my Mama are going to Palm Springs next week to have some, y’know- _adult time_ ”, he started, rolling his eyes as he quirked his fingers to form air quotes. “- if you’re off on Saturday, maybe- maybe you come over, and we have the house all to ourselves.”

“Sure. Of course- _yeah_.”

* * *

“What do you uh- what do you want in a guy?”, Jose asked, a juicy trail of oil trailing down his chin. He had ordered some of his favorites, a deep-fried po’boy and a simple tossed salad, from a restaurant down the street, the bag arriving just before Brock had on a bright Saturday afternoon. Rain through the evening had cooled the entire city down, leaving the grass in Jose’s courtyard green and lush, and the walkway bricks a shade darker from the night before. 

He had dressed for the occasion, choosing a black sleeveless shirt, and simple, casual gray sweatpants, a departure from his usual revealing wardrobe that had the exact effect he had wanted on Brock, his dirty blonde- haired boo almost instantly seething with nothing extra to look at when he hand answered the door. Still, the pleasure of the thought of Brock, untying the drawstring and guiding his pants down his legs, was more than worth it, even as they looped their legs together underneath the wrought-iron table on the deck, toes tapping against each other’s skin while they enjoyed an early dinner.

“I don’t know- someone who can keep up, I think? It’s hard ‘cause I move around a lot, or I did anyway? I think I’m staying in LA for as long as I can though. It’s just- _better_ here.”, said Brock, chewing on a forkful of his salad. 

“Hmm. You a one-man kinda guy? ‘Cause I told you about Silky but we- we kinda together on that. I want a love story, you know? So we both gotta be working on us if we gonna work.” 

Brock dropped his fork against the plate. “Jose, I- like you, but-“ 

“We ain’t gotta sort it out all today, mami-“ 

He reached across the table, his hand resting against Brock’s cheek as he drew the two of them closer together, carefully maneuvering around the half-filled wine glasses that seemed to shudder with the light breeze. Brock’s mouth opened, eager for his kiss, and surprised when Jose’s cheek fell flat in the crook of his shoulder, his teeth suckling at the sensitive skin of Brock’s neck instead, moving all the way up and down his collarbone, as he skirted around the table and settled himself, firmly in Brock’s lap. 

“-not that I don’t trust your hot boy summer ass, but we shouldn’t be kissin’ yet.”, he whispered against Brock’s chest, making Brock chuckle as he let his own hand snake up inside Jose’s shirt, pinching at his nipple hard enough to make him squirm deliciously, almost too close to his half-hard cock, the space between Brock’s thighs growing painfully sensitive as Jose rocked their hips together, the blooming pain from the bruises Jose left along his neck bursting into pleasure as he bit down, just a little bit harder. 

His hands had sunk underneath the waistband of Jose’s sweats, teasing at the straps of his jockstrap, barely able to squeeze his ass against the fitted, soft fabric- 

“Hey, baby- let’s go _inside-_ “ 

Inside, they collapsed against the couch where Brock remembered Annabel sitting with a cocktail glass in hand on one of the very first days that he had come over, forcing the thought of her from his mind as her son, frisky as ever, settled his face into the space of his chest, his tongue working its way along Brock’s pecs, hair buried under the shirt Brock thought he had already discarded. 

He pulled the fabric up over his head, guiding Jose to remove his own top and those teasing sweats, their clothes falling flat against the couch covers. Jose was already hard, his swollen cock swinging in Brock’s face while he reached over him to the end table, pulling the drawer out completely as a dozen gold foil squares splattered across the floor. 

“Oh my god-“, Brock couldn’t help but laugh. “ _-that’s_ where you keep your condoms?” 

“ _Shut up!_ ”

Jose’s body rocked against his as his arm swept against the hardwood, catching two of the packets in his nimble fingers. 

“If you stay ready, you ain’t gotta get ready, is what Silk always says, so I got myself ready when you said you was coming over.”, he told Brock, giggling a little as he flicked off the straps of his jock, straddling Brock’s chest with his knees resting on the couch cushions, his warm, slick cock throbbing as he slid on the condom. 

Having his face thoroughly fucked by Jose was a fantasy that Brock hadn’t yet enjoyed, his throat seizing as he found himself in between Jose’s smooth, lush thighs, his cock pumping hard into Brock’s mouth. His hands reached up to find Jose’s hips, and gripped tightly around his waist to gain at least a little bit of control, his fingers digging deep enough into the soft flesh there, to doubtlessly leave bruises in the morning. 

His rhythm slowed, as Brock could feel a liquid heat fill his mouth, his skin already flush as Jose lifted himself up, his hand still cradled around his cock to make sure nothing sprayed on Brock’s bare chest. 

“ _Your turn._ ”, he huffed out, passing Brock one of the condoms in his hand. He wriggled out of his shorts, pumping his own cock as he let Jose hungrily slide his boxers down, fingers slipping to open the packet. 

“Don’t worry… I don’t mind waiting.”, Jose teased, his orgasm only moments before apparently not even close to enough to take him down a peg.

“You say that now-“ 

Brock pressed his hands down against Jose’s shoulders, bracing his body against the back of the couch. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks a bright, warm pink, the bliss so obvious on his face that Brock would have thought it was a moment to capture forever, if only- 

A mewling sound interrupted his thoughts, followed by a skittering of tiny paws up the hardwood floor, a tiny white kitten scampering up to the couch, licking at Jose’s face from where his head hung off of the cushions.

“ _Fuck-_ “, Jose moaned, his head snapping up. “ _Thackery, Baby, no-_ “ 

“You have a cat?” 

“Yes, I fucking have a cat!”, he groaned. “Who can’t stay in his own damn business somewhere else in this big ass house, apparently.” 

“ _Oh, my God._ Is this the first time he’s- so he’s not the neighborhood’s baby daddy, is he?”, Brock started to laugh, letting himself fall back on his knees. 

“ _Fuck this!_ ” 

Jose threw his head back against the cushions, his completely oblivious pet still rubbing its back against his hand. 

“What’s his name?”, Brock asked, the sheer absurdity of the situation before him, taking his mind off of how his cock still rested against Jose’s thigh, wrapped and ready to go. 

“His name- for now- is fucking _wet wipes are in the drawer underneath the TV stand-_ ‘cause you are gonna have to take care of yourself, and I am gonna have to give my little man a long ass talk-“ 

The kitten climbed up on to Jose’s chest, apparently finding it a perfectly fine place to rest, even with the both of them half-naked and wet with sex. 

“Jesus, _fuck-_ “

Jose caught Brock’s eye as he pushed himself up, Thackery scrambling back to settle on a rug on the floor, and couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

* * *

  
“- _wake up, do you want to stay for breakfast?_ ”

Brock heard a voice, floating in the very back of his mind, his eyes still struggling to open despite a blinding bright pane of white light behind his eyelashes. 

Last night, after he and Jose had cleaned each other up in the bathroom, and dug through his stepfather’s closet to find something that wouldn’t rip right when he hit the water, they had lounged in the pool for the rest of the evening, watching the sun set over the California cliffs, sharing a bottle of outrageously expensive wine that was so sweet their throats burned while they drank, and finally ended their night in Jose’s bedroom, Thackery rolling in between the two of them on the plush black sheets of his king bed, more than proud of himself, as he maintained the distance. 

The kitten was clearly his pride and joy, and Brock couldn’t help but think of how much he would enjoy playing with Henry and Apollo when they could meet as he let himself fall asleep, carding his hand gently through Jose’s blond-dyed hair. 

“Brock, I was saying, wake up. Do you want to stay for breakfast?” 

He blinked his eyes open, horrified to find Annabel hovering in front of his face, her lips painted with the deepest red of her lipsticks, smirking at him, her son still lounging on Brock’s lap, Jose’s mouth still slightly open as he slept. 

“Do you have any allergies?”

“Um- n-no?” 

“Okay, so I’ll put out an extra chair. Make sure you wake this one up, too. _We still have to get ready for church-_ “ 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been away from writing these boys for a while, but like Vanjie always says, you don’t really ever get tired! 
> 
> This fandom, and this corner of it especially, has given me a lot of joy over the past few months, and with everything going on, I hope that everyone who is reading this enjoyed the story! I’m a little rusty... 😂
> 
> We can chat @ hypevanjie.tumblr.com


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